Mostly Void
by Curioser
Summary: In the vast sand wastes of the desert, an orange ship lies smoking in a crater of its own making. Five young people stumble out of it. This is a story about them—and then, dear listeners, it is a story about us.


**Chapter 1: A Story About Them**

This is a story about them.

In the vast sand wastes of the desert, an orange ship lies smoking in a crater of its own making. It lies like a bird that has been shot, perhaps by a child with a BB gun, who was more curious about whether they could hit the bird than actually wanting to cause the bird harm. But the harm has been caused, and the ship lies like a shot bird as five young people stumble out.

"Okay," says the boy who is not an animal—at least, not a bestial animal. No more a bestial animal than the average human being, anyway. "Anybody see what hit us?"

"Diagnostics are on the fritz," says the boy who is not a machine, consulting a computer screen that is built into his arm. "Whatever it was scrambled the T-Ship's systems, and good. The hull looks okay, but I'mma have to get under the hood to really see how she's doing."

"Do your systems know where we are?" asks a hooded figure. Not one of our hooded figures—it is shorter, and lacks the distinctive features of our hooded figures, such as trailing tentacles. Also, our hooded figures never speak. This one does, in a voice that is decidedly female.

"GPS is whacked out, too," says the boy who is not a machine.

"Wherever we are," says the boy who is not an animal, "it doesn't look like California to me."

A girl who is not from around here drifts up above the heads of her companions. None of them are surprised as she rises, ethereal and lovely, high into the air. She looks like an angel—if angels were real. Which they are not.

She revolves in midair, searching the horizon with large, unearthly eyes. In the distance, she sees a glow on the horizon—the glow of homes and businesses, human civilization, eking out an existence as best it can in this harsh, unwelcoming desert. She can see a water tower, and some power lines, and the tall, narrow spire of a radio station antenna. This radio station antenna.

Be patient, Night Vale. This is not a story about you. Not yet.

This is a story about them, the man on the radio tells you, without knowing how he knows. He is safely ensconced in his studio booth, sipping coffee, letting the story of people he cannot see and has not met wind its way out of his mouth, into his microphone, and to your radios.

The girl who is not from around here raises her hand and points to the glow. "There appears to be a settlement not far from here. Perhaps the people there will be able to inform us?"

"Couldn't hurt," says the boy who is not a machine.

"Well. It could," says the hooded figure.

She is correct. Everything can hurt. Often, everything does.

The final figure makes as if to speak, and the other four turn to him. This figure is also a boy who is not an animal, or a machine. But he is certainly not just a boy. Everything, from his straight back to his furrowed brow, his masked eyes and fluttering cape, speaks to what he is.

"Something definitely hit us," says the boy who is not just a boy. "We should stay alert, in case whatever it is comes back. Cyborg, if you can't fix the ship to get us out of here, we need to figure out where we are and what we might be up against."

"So you want to head into town?" asks the boy who is not a machine. "Shouldn't someone stay with the ship? I don't want to leave my baby alone."

The boy who is not just a boy hesitates. He lifts his masked eyes upward, past the floating girl, into the great expanse of void sparsely punctuated with stars. He does not trust that void, and he does not trust the desert. He is right not to trust either of them.

"We'll all go," he says finally. "Until we figure out what's going on, we stick together. The ship will be fine. We should get moving."

The boy who is not a machine grumbles, but he follows as the other four move toward the light on the horizon. The boy who is not an animal changes his skin, becomes that which he is not, to sniff among the scrub lands as a desert fox. The girl who is not from around here drifts ahead, guiding the way like a navigator's star; the hooded figure drifts behind, guarding the rear from they know not what. And the boy who is not just a boy walks, his back straight, his brow furrowed, his eyes trained on the spire of the radio station broadcast tower.

And that is where the story changes, dear listeners, says the man on the radio. That is where the narration ceases to be a story about them.

Soon it will be a story about you. It will be a story about all of you, Night Vale. It will be a story about Night Vale and the five strangers growing closer with every step.

It will be a story about us.

 ** _AN:_** _Yeah, I have no idea where that came from or where it's going, or whether it's going anywhere at all. I might continue it; I might not. But I don't think there are any Teen Titans/Welcome to Night Vale cross overs out there yet, so I'm shooting this off into the void._

 _For those of you who read this and have zero idea what's going on, I need you to hope on the "Welcome to Night Vale" train real quick and get hooked on one of the most wonderfully weird podcasts in existence. This intro chapter was modeled after the episodes "A Story About You" and "A Story About Them," in which radio host Cecil Palmer has unexplained omniscient knowledge about certain people in and around Night Vale. It will not be the format of every chapter, if there are any other chapters at all._

 _If you liked it, and would like to see it continue, please throw some ideas at me. It was fun trying to write about the Titans in Cecil's voice, and if I get an idea I really like, I'd be willing to keep doodling on this story. Let me know! And hey. Thanks._


End file.
